


The dream

by NohaIjiachi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Multi, in the sense an alternate universe is created, kink meme fill, mild horror elements, sort of alternate universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21537139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NohaIjiachi/pseuds/NohaIjiachi
Summary: She let herself relax, lie on a side on the blanket, the soft grass under it more comfortable than the bed of a king.Just a minute, she tells herself, as brother Francis quietly sheds the outdated coat he seems to never take off, to cover her without a word, tucking her in gently. Just for a minute, she wants to believe.That this is her life. Their life. That they are enjoying an afternoon with their boy, no impeding wars, no opposite sides, nothing. Just a couple and their children and a garden, and a sweet gesture, and no parts to play.She closes her eyes, allowing herself this single minute—
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 211





	The dream

**Author's Note:**

> Time to get around postin' some more kink meme fill, to [this prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=1043304) this time around.
> 
> Copypasting the same warning from my first post of this fill: Due to the nature of the prompt, during the vast majority of the fic Crowley considers himself a cis woman, and considers Aziraphale a cis man. There's a brief sex scene with these premises, just wanted to let ppl know beforehand.
> 
> That said, onward with the angst, lolll

They are sitting in the garden and, for a minute, nanny Ashtoreth can pretend everything is perfect.

Warlock is six, and insisted in taking outside one of his clean blankets to use as a picnic towel, so they could have their afternoon snack in the gardens, and she had leniently let him go on with it. They’ve met brother Francis, of course, gently tending to the low bushes, and invited him along.

She’s sitting without her hat, for once, crumbles of what was once a toast with jam between them, brother Francis sitting on the other side of the blanket-turned-towel and sipping tea from a thermos, while a well fed Warlock plays ‘doomsday’ with his toys.

“This is the end!” Warlock declares in a booming voice, both small hands moving about a rubber snake above a prone figure of a superhero from those american movies, fixed smile on the shining plastic above a perfectly square jaw. Neither of them comments on this. “The world is ours! Raaawr!”

She glances at brother Francis, and he can see the underline of affection for the boy in his gray eyes. And for a minute, just a minute, she can pretend.

She let herself relax, lie on a side on the blanket, the soft grass under it more comfortable than the bed of a king.

Just a minute, she tells herself, as brother Francis quietly sheds the outdated coat he seems to never take off, to cover her without a word, tucking her in gently. Just for a minute, she wants to believe.

That this is her life. _Their_ life. That they are enjoying an afternoon with their boy, no impeding wars, no opposite sides, nothing. Just a couple and their children and a garden, and a sweet gesture, and no parts to play.

She closes her eyes, allowing herself this single minute—

—

She wakes up to the sound of an alarm clock and rustling of blankets.

Antonia blinks at the ceiling, slowly. She knows this is her name, now, and it’s— Confusing.

“Oh, I woke you, didn’t I?” a soft voice murmurs, and softer lips place a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I’m sorry, my dear, do go back to sleep. I’ll take care of Warlock.”

She blinks again, and turns. Ezra smiles down at her, hair more ruffled than usual, eyes still hooded with soft sleepiness. He’s wearing the pajama she gifted him, dark blue with the print of constellations.

“Happy anniversary, my love,” he murmurs, tucking a lock of her long, curly red hair behind her ear. “Rest, it’s early. I’ll drive Warlock to school and then we’ll go have brunch.”

And off he goes, padding barefooted toward their bathroom while in the distance she can hear the telltale noises of a six year old waking up full of energies to spend.

She remains on the bed, slightly dazed. She knows all these things, like her name, and Ezra’s name, and the fact that they are married and that today is their fifteenth anniversary. She knows he has a bookshop that he loves dearly, but not as much as he loves her and their child. She knows they had trouble conceiving, and that they’ve both launched themselves into raising their baby boy with everything they had, when they finally achieved their dream of adding a life to their little family. She knows they have a lazy cat named Bee -Warlock’s choice- and a hyperactive dog named Gabe -also Warlock’s choice-. She knows she has a flower shop two streets over from Ezra’s bookshop, so they can go have lunch breaks together, but she also knows both shops will stay closed, today, as it _is_ their anniversary.

And she knows this should not be possible, somewhat. There’s something in the back of her head, a whisper, that’s telling her this is not real.

She waves it away. _Of course_ it’s real. Good lord knows what she dreamt in her sleep, to make her feel like that.

Once she reassures herself of this, she turns on a side with a little, relaxed sigh. She can hear soft noises from downstairs, where Ezra is probably preparing Warlock for the day. It isn’t long before the young one tip-toes in their bedroom.

“Mom— Happy anniversary,” Warlock says in a whisper, placing a kiss on her cheek. She smiles, her eyes closed. She’s not sure Warlock really understand what an ‘anniversary’ even is, yet, but he sounds sincerely happy.

“Thank you, darling,” she replies, opening her honey-coloured eyes to wink at Warlock, fully dressed and with his backpack already on his shoulders. Their boy doesn’t look much like either of them, but she never cared about that. “Have a good day at school.”

Warlock hums with a big grin, before scampering downstairs. She hears the entrance door opening and closing, and she knows it won’t be long before Ezra will come back from driving Warlock to school, so she gets up.

In the bathroom, as she lets the water in the shower run to get up to her favorite, almost-scalding temperature, she looks at herself in the mirror. She’s lean and thin, small breasts, pale stretch marks striping her flat belly, skin sagging just slightly around her sharp hip bones. There are lines that betray her age starting to sink around her mouth and eyes, and her slightly hooked nose. She still feels beautiful, as Ezra makes sure to remind her often and with gusto that she is.

A lot of people remark what an odd pair her and Ezra make. She’s all sharp edges and fiery temper, her bright red hair matching this impression. Ezra is all gentle curves and softness, both in his body and in his mannerisms, his hair of a blond so pale he’d always looked a bit old even when they met as barely young adults. She couldn’t be happier about their supposed oddness.

When Ezra comes back she’s ready, squeezed in her favorite black dress and hair punctually curled. She was leaning a bit over the sink, putting the last finishing touches on her makeup and her favorite earrings (small snakes curling around her lobes, their fanged mouths hanging from the piercings. A gift from Ezra, of course) when Ezra catches sight of her as he walks through the bedroom. She can see his gray eyes giving her an once-over, shining with love.

Smiling to herself she closes the mascara and turns as Ezra sheds the soft sweater he put on to drive Warlock, starting to wear a smarter waistcoat and suit jacket.

“So—“ she starts, her heels ticking on the bathroom tiles before she reaches the carpeted bedroom floor. “Where are we going?”

“Oh, you _know_ where we are going, dear,” Ezra replies, more than a bit mischievous as he puts on one of his bowties.

“That place near St. James?” she asks, tilting an eyebrow. “I thought we were banned—“

“_Were_ is they keyword. The place changed management recently, and I’ve been hearing from reliable sources the new guys have no idea we are not welcome anymore—“

“_Ezra_,” she chuckles, leaning over his shoulder and sliding her hands along his chest and belly, to go pull at his already perfectly fitting waistcoat a bit. “You are a menace.”

“I try, my love,” he replies, leaning back and tipping his head up -she’s already taller than him, even more so with the heels, and she knows he_ loves it_\- to place a kiss on her jaw. “Ready?”

“Are we going to get ourselves banned a second time?” she asks, dips appearing at the corners of her mouth with a smile as she puts on her coat. Ezra offers her his arm, and she hooks her long fingers into the crook of his elbow, as they go downstairs.

“I guess that depends on you,” he says, cheerful, grabbing the car keys on the fly. “Or on the quality of their cooking. Or both.”

She laughs openly and very un-lady like as they got outside and crossed the short path on the sidewalk, gaining a glare from Mrs. Thompson, their nosy neighbour.

“Are we going to make another baby, darling? I’m pretty sure that was where we made warlock, after all,” she asks with a much lower voice, right in Ezra’s ear, as he surrenders the car keys without a word. She smiles, very satisfied, when a little shiver runs down his spine and the tip of his ears go pink.

“As I said,” he starts, his voice betraying nothing, but his eyes speaking for him. “It depends on you, dearest.”

—

“Ssoooo-“ Hassie casually starts as she shuffles the deck. “How did yesterday go?”

Antonia doesn’t reply immediately, not realizing the question isn’t meant to be a general ‘how is it going’ aimed at their little quartet. But then both Ligeia and the new arrival at their poker evening, Eloha, are looking at her, and she blinks.

“We expected you’d skip this week,” Hassie continues, starting to hand over their cards. “Knowing you and Ezra…”

“Is it really that bad?” Eloha asks, a smile pulling at her thin mouth. Ligeia snorts.

“They are disgusting. The way they act, you’d think they got married yesterday—“

“Hey!” Antonia tries to protest, cheeks pinking slightly. Eloha chuckles.

“Don’t deny it. We saw him, today at lunch. He brought you _flowers_—“

“—He called them ‘after-anniversary-flowers’—“

“You _sell_ flowers,” Hassie continues, after accommodating Ligeia’s little interjection. “And he kissed your hand like you both live in a Jane Austen novel—“

“Alright, point taken,” Antonia snorts, rolling her eyes and then taking a peek at her cards. Two aces, not a bad start— “It’s not my fault my husband is very considerate and yours aren’t, hold your jealousy, ladies.”

“Pfft—“ Ligeia let out, while peeking at her own cards, eyes going hooded and betraying the probably very shitty hand she was given. “As if. I think I’d run away screaming if my husband was that— Constantly overly sappy. I don’t know how you stand it.”

Antonia shakes her head at the sky with a little sigh and decides to not even dignify that with a response.

“Very in love, huh?” Eloha asks, not even looking at her cards. “Sounds nice— How did you two met?“

“Oh, no, don’t make her start—“ Hassie tries to cry, but Antonia grins.

“St. James. I was working on my master thesis on London’s indigenous plant species and Ezra was there, just taking a stroll, feeding the ducks— It must’ve been a few days since anyone bothered giving something to them, because they were _feral_, making a ruckus, honking loudly and advancing on Ezra like an army of very hungry, very feathered soldiers. He was backing up toward the lake without noticing, trying not to get his fingers bitten off and throwing bread desperately, and I didn’t even had the time to warn him before he took one too many steps and, splash. Right into the lake,” Antonia laughs along Eloha’s chuckle, before continuing. “So there we were. Me, covered in dirt and a leaf stuck on my face, laughing my ass off, and Ezra, sitting _his_ ass into the lake while ducks tore his paper bag apart, looking completely shocked and we just— Looked at each other…”

Ligeia makes a fake gagging noise, but Antonia continues, still smiling, “And we— ‘Wow, he’s cute’, I thought, and he looked like he was thinking ‘wow, she’s beautiful’, and we just… Started talking. And we continued talking. And ten years later we were married.”

“Aww—“ Eloha says, sounding genuinely pleased by the story. “What did you tell him, first?”

“Oh, I remember it so clearly— I helped him out of the lake and said ‘well, that went down like a lead balloon’, and he made that adorable confused face of his, complete with a nervous chuckle…”

Antonia trails off, blinking. The moment she said those words, she felt like they sounded— Different, in her memories.

Like someone else said them.

“Are we done with the reminiscing?” Hassie sighs, only half-exasperated. “I’d like to play poker, at some point.”

“Alright, alright, you old toad,” Antonia mutters, dazed by how strangely, suddenly off-center she feels.

—

It’s very late when Ezra comes back from work. He’d put on hold a restoration job for their anniversary, so it wasn’t surprising he ended catching up with it well after closing hours, that day.

“I missed Warlock’s story time, didn’t I?” he sighs, shaking his coat after Antonia welcomed him home in a low voice. She smiles.

“It’s not the end of the world, darling, he didn’t mind having just me reading to him, for once—“

“I know, I know— But I don’t like missing any. He grows so fast… Soon he’ll be old enough he won’t want bed stories anymore, and I’ll miss it so much—“ he mutters, letting himself drop heavily on the couch by her side. She scuttles closer, carding her thin fingers through his curls, as he leans to rest his head on her shoulder.

“When that day comes you can read to me, if you want,” she whispers, pressing a kiss on his hairline. He can see the lines deepening around his eyes as he smiles.

They sit in companionable silence for long minutes, Ezra just— Dozing off against her, his thumb rubbing a lazy circle on her knee, and Antonia looking at her phone without really registering what she was looking at.

She’s still pondering on what happened a handful of hours earlier. About her memory— She’s sure that was how things went, and yet—

Why did her voice sounded so different, in her memories?

“Dear?”

“Mmmh…?”

“Do you remember the first time we met?”

She feels Ezra’s mouth turn in a smile against her shoulder.

“Of course,” he says, voice low and happy. “St. James. I fell into the lake after that duck assault, and you helped me up. You were so beautiful I was pretty much speechless, and then you found me some dry trousers to put on, and I gave you my coat when it started to rain…”

Antonia stays still. She didn’t remember the rain— But yes, it did start to rain at some point, and Ezra shielded her with something white—

“Wasn’t it your umbrella?”

“Ah, might’ve been, I don’t remember all the details, admittedly,” Ezra says, sounding unperturbed.

“Do you remember what was the first thing I said to you?”

“Mmmh, I was still trying to make my brain function after laying my eyes on you for the first time, but— I’m fairly sure you said that the ducks aren’t usually this vicious, and that I must’ve brought really good bread— Why are you asking?”

“…Just reminiscing,” she says, softly, and Ezra seemingly accepts the explanation with a soft hum.

‘_Well, that went down like a lead balloon_’, the voice that doesn’t sounds like her voice says in her brain, and she feels a sinking feeling in her stomach.

—

_“…We’ll be godfathers, sort of,” Antonia says, but it’s not her, not really. This is someone else, someone so similar to her, but the honey of her eyes is fully yellow, pupils thin like the ones of a cat— “Overseeing his upbringing. We’ll do it right he won’t be evil— Or good! He’ll just— Just be normal.”_

_Ezra looks at her with an expression halfway between doubtful and hopeful. But this isn’t Ezra, this is someone else. She can’t pinpoint exactly what makes it so, it’s some— Sort of energy, of presence— This is Ezra, but he isn’t all the same, some kind of power thrumming behind his eyes— _

_A smile opens on his face, as he softly says, “It… It might work,” he pauses, eyes glinting with a silly sort of happiness. “Godfathers… Well, I’ll be damned—” he says, so very softly, looking at her with a fondness that does not seem to have a bottom._

_“It’s not that bad when you get used to it,” she says, sounding smug, and she can tell there’s a significance behind the words she cannot grasp, not really._

—

She wakes with cold sweat on her forehead, gasping for hair.

The dream hadn’t been scary, or upsetting. It had been just— Two people that weren’t quite her and her husband, talking.

So why did she feel that sense of dread in the depths of her stomach?

“…’Tonia?” Ezra murmurs into the darkness, voice thick with sleep. “Love? Everything alright?”

“Yes, I—“ she takes another deep breath, willing her voice steadier. “Just a bad dream. Sleep, darling.”

“Mmmh,” he murmurs, rustling following as he turns and shifts toward her. She feels the weight of his elbow near her head, the mattress tipping down. “C’mere—“ he says, softly, and she tips her chin up, allowing his mouth on hers.

Ezra kisses her like it’s the first time they’ve kissed. His mouth is gentle, and warm, his lips toying with her lower one. It’s so soft, and slow, and she’s suddenly grabbed by a need from the depths of her lower belly, an almost burning _want_— She runs her fingers on his scalp, nails leaving a trail that makes him shiver.

“Tonia,” he whispers against her mouth, a question and a warning in that single word. She huffs, takes his free hand, and guides it on her chest. Ezra’s fingers graze her nipple, already perked and turgid with need, and he makes a little, shaky noise.

“Want you,” she whispers in his ear, sliding her knee through his legs. She keeps it here, as Ezra pinches through the light cloth of her pajama, causing her to arch her back with a soft moan. And she moans again, feeling her folds tickle with desire when she starts to feel Ezra go hard under her knee.

“—Should wake me up like this more often,” he says, voice hoarse with need, as he shifts to straddle her hips and starts to open up the buttons of her nightgown. She puts her hands on his soft waist and runs them up along his belly and his chest, and then back down, to help him out the pajama pants. She shivers, when the cool night air hits her now exposed breasts and sensitive nipples.

“So beautiful,” Ezra sighs, a thumb running along her collarbone, his other hand cupping her small breast, index fingers on the engorged nipple. “I’m the luckiest man alive—“

“Shuddup,” she huffs, but she’s smiling. She softly squeezes his erection through the underwear, causing him to take a breath through his teeth. “_I’m_ the lucky one.”

“Let’s agree we are both very lucky,” he murmurs, voice thick but amused all the same. He slides her underwear down her thighs, fingers roughed by years of handling chemicals slipping gently through her labia, collecting the wetness there, running little circles on her clitoris, causing her breath to catch and a loud moan to escape her lips. “Let me chase all the bad dreams away,” he says, so full of love, and Antonia closes her eyes, spreading her thighs for him, and abandoning herself to a familiar pleasure that never grows stale.

Later, when Ezra falls asleep with his soft body pressed against her back and arms around her, warm and familiar and protective, his breath tickling her neck and his hair soft against her cheek, Antonia wishes she could stay like this forever. Just the two of them, in bed, no barriers between them and the pleasure still pulsating lightly between her legs, his seed filling her up.

And, if they will have to move again, if they will have to get up and put barriers between them, and go about their day as they usually do— Well, at least she wishes this will be the one. That her womb will fill up again, that she will be able to give him another little one Ezra could spend years reading to, sharing his love for books and stories—

She falls asleep like that, wishing.

—

She’s lounging on one of the armchairs in the bookshop, while Ezra pours over a restoration job, soft music in the background.

She does that, sometimes, if it’s a slow day at the flower shop. Closes early, walks two streets over, and just sits in the bookshop while Ezra reorganises the inventory for what could possibly be the hundredth time, or -very grudgingly- haggles the price of one of his books until he’s satisfied by the proposition, or just flutters about launching her little fond smiles.

She doesn’t want to disturb him, so she just stays in her armchair, watching his back. The curls that start on the top of his head always seems to go in a slightly spiral-y direction, a tiny detail she adores. It makes her want to pet him for hours.

But today it’s not one of those days. She looks at that spiral, and feels her stomach sink.

In the last few days she started to feel more and more like something was— Amiss. Like looking at a beloved painting one has committed to memory, only to find some details that seems— Incongruous.

She looked at the pictures in their house, and realized she could not recall so many memories— She looked at the picture of their wedding day, big and framed in gold, propped above the fireplace. They are in front of a church, both wearing white, people who do not fit her memories throwing petals at them. They are both laughing, hand in hand, golden bands shining around their fingers and smiles frozen in time on the glossy paper, and she thinks it’s— Wrong.

_That’s absurd, I can’t go into churches_, was the first thought crossing her mind when she noticed the altar just barely visible in the background, and then felt like air had been knocked out of her lungs. Of course she could go into churches…

Could she?

She watched for long minutes the picture by the entrance, of the both of them in St. James, standing in the exact spot they’ve first met. She’s swollen with the, at that point unnamed, Warlock, her belly so full on her thin and lanky frame. And Ezra by her side, a smile that could light up a country and shoulders squared almost proudly, a hand around her waist and his other on top of hers, resting on her belly. And right by that picture another one, Antonia resting in a hospital bed, Ezra sitting by her side, the both of them holding their little boy bundled in blankets, still a bit red after the birth. They both look tired, but so, so happy, and Antonia—

Antonia can’t remember. She can’t remember the feeling of carrying Warlock in her, nor of giving birth. She can remember their joyful tears after he was born but from— Afar, as if she watched the scene from a corner of the room, rather than living it directly.

Maybe— Maybe she was getting sick. Maybe there was something wrong with her head. She ought to tell Ezra, but— How could she ruin their happiness, just like that?

She looks at the ceiling of the bookshop, darkly. She didn’t want to stew in those thoughts— She needed a distraction.

She rises from the armchair, Ezra so focused he doesn’t even turn. She looks around. As usual, the bookshop is always messy and a bit dusty, Ezra never trusted a cleaning service to treat his books with the proper care, and insisted in cleaning himself, but with how busy he always was the cleaning inevitably ended up in the backlog. Maybe she could at least sweep the floor a bit, the carpets looked like they could use a good beating— Yeah, that seemed like something she could do without making Ezra nervous about the books.

She got to work, hauling the closest one outside from the backdoor. A giant cloud of dust rose from it as she shook energetically. Maybe she’d better take it home, where she had a proper paddle to do the job— Maybe have it dry cleaned.

Set on that idea, she deposited the first carpet by the door and ventured back inside, finding more. They might as well have all of them cleaned, while they were at it.

Except— When she moves a round rug nearby the entrance, she finds something— Unusual.

There is a strange drawing hidden under it, what looks like a circle with a square in the middle, letters of an alphabet she did not recognize painted in white on the wood. She feels— Something, going tight in her stomach.

“—Ezra?”

“Yes, dear?” Ezra replies, distracted.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but— Could you come here a minute?”

Without a protest, Ezra turns, frowning slightly at her tone. He gently deposits the tweezers he’s holding and takes off his gloves, before approaching, heels tip-tapping on the wood.

“…What is this?” he asks, clearly confused, as he notices the strange drawing. Antonia frowns.

“That’s— What I wanted to ask you,” she says, slowly. And observes, as the frown on Ezra’s face deepens, his eyes going hooded— “Ezra?”

He doesn’t reply, eyes going more and more far and— Antonia feels it. That head-spinning sensation, that coldness on her neck, like something is tugging behind the curtain of reality—

It’s the same feeling she has when waking up from the strange dreams she’s having lately. As if they are on a stage, and in the back someone is reminding her this is all but a play—

“Ezra—“ she chokes, fear clutching at her throat, hands squeezing his upper arms. “Ezra!”

He snaps back, blinking, and smiles at her as if he didn’t went mute and so, _so far_ for long seconds. “I’m afraid I don’t know, dear. Either this was here from the start and I never noticed, or someone thought to scare me— You know I have books that might attract a certain kind of clientele, and that they are usually not happy when they realize I think it’s all rubbish.”

“I— Ah, of course,” she says, faint, because she’s afraid that if she shows any kind of indecisiveness, the thing behind the curtain will grab her and take her away. “I’ll— We can try a solvent we have at home, to clean it off—“

“Ah, good idea, love!” Ezra says, cheerful, leaning in to place a kiss on her cheek. “Remind me to take it to the shop, tonight, will you?”

Antonia hums, and as Ezra gets back to his restoration job, she dares not to look back at the strange circle.

—

_“…The boy’s too normal,” Antonia grumbles, after neatly sliding in the seat behind Ezra._

_This is not them, but she’s got used to it, at this point._

_“Excellent, it’s working,” Ezra replies, folding his newspaper. But he sounds hollow, unsure. “The heavenly influences are balancing out the hellish. A no score draw.”_

_“Mh, I hope you’re right—“ she almost whispers, looking on a side as if checking they are not being spied on. “Only six years left to go—“_

_“Crowley—“ Ezra says, and she wants to scream. That’s not her name, but Ezra keeps calling her that, in the dreams._

_“Yeah?” she says instead, almost distracted, her mouth not obeying her._

_It never obeys her._

_“I mean— If he— Comes into his full power,” Ezra stammers, clearly nervous. “How do— How do we stop him, then?”_

_“I’m— Sure it won’t come to that,” she replies, terse, and knows she’s lying as she leans back on the bus seat. Ezra doesn’t reply, and from behind her sunglasses she glances at him, at the little spiral of curls behind his head that she loves so much, and she knows that deep down they are both terrified._

—

It’s just Eloha there, that night, and Antonia is not surprised.

“Are you ok?” Eloha asks, her voice soft.

“No,” Antonia replies, rough.

No. She is not ok. Something is wrong with— With everything. With the entire blasted world.

She keeps remembering things that should have not happened and lives she should have not lived. She remembers Ezra in robes that humans wore thousands of years past, and speaking languages he should not be able to speak. She remembers herself sliding between names and identities, shifting between forms, a woman a day, a man the next, neither when she felt like it, and sometimes—

Sometimes she slides on her belly, sees things differently, smells the air by tasting it with a forked tongue.

She woke up with a snake tattooed under her right temple, and Ezra looked at her funny, acting as if that mark had always been there. More and more she catches glimpses of her reflection out the corner of her eyes, and could swear they were yellow and with thin pupils, only to gaze into her pale, scared face with the usual honey coloured eyes.

Details go amiss and memories are askew. People are starting to look faceless, and both Ezra and Warlock sometimes go silent and motionless, their eyes glassy, and do not react even when she screams their names.

“I think I’m going crazy,” she says, tears in her eyes. Hassie and Ligeia should be there, too, but they aren’t, because Antonia has realized they are not real.

Eloha is very real, though, Antonia can tell. She’s not quite sure why, maybe they are somehow sharing this very life-like hallucination that is slowly crumbling like an old building.

Eloha hums, sounding somewhat melancholic.

“Do you know why?”

Antonia doesn’t stop to think about how Eloha hadn’t protested the idea, nor just asked why. She seemingly accepted Antonia’s declaration, going straight for the heart of the problem.

_Do you know why?_

“I don’t think I’m real. I don’t think this world is real. I think I’m— Someone else,” Antonia whispers, shaking. “I’m a dress someone is wearing, in a place that should not exist. I’m— Someone else’s wish.”

“Perhaps— But I do think this world is very much real. It’s just that— It’s not strong enough to hold,” Eloha replies, pensive. “Strong enough to shift, but… Even you can have only so much power. It’s rather miraculous you’ve managed to hold onto it for so long.”

“What will happen to them?” Antonia— No, Crowley, whispers, tears dropping from her eyes. “What will happen to my husband? My child?”

“Oh, they will still be there, but play a different part,” Eloha looks at her, and there’s infinite sadness in her eyes, which are the colour of a morning sky. “I’m very sorry, you know. I would’ve helped you, but there are thousands of people on hold, out there, waiting to be brought back. You’ve resized the world to how much you could bear to fuel, and it’s— Small. It wouldn’t be fair to all those people, to leave them out there, frozen.”

Crowley sobs, a knot too tight in her throat for her to say anything.

“I’ll give you some more time to say goodbye,” Eloha murmurs, gently carding her thin fingers through Crowley’s hair.

—

When she arrives home, the streets are deserted, the city is empty. When she steps into the living room, she knows Ezra is not Ezra, and that Warlock is not really their child.

Aziraphale looks up from the book he was reading, legs collected on the couch. There’s something frayed around his edges, as if he’s— Tired. So tired, like he’s lived a thousand years, possibly more, and his body is starting to give up.

But he still smiles at her.

Warlock also looks and smiles at her, a toy train in a hand, and even if he’s not really hers, she adores him all the same.

“Come sit with me, dear,” Aziraphale says, making space for her. Crowley obeys, knowing she will start to cry as soon as she says a word. “I was reading to warlock—“

“Thomas the tank engine!” Warlock interjects, waving his toy train happily, and she smiles, even if it’s so hard.

And she sits there, listening as Aziraphale reads on, making voices and interpreting the scenes, Warlock kneeling on the carpet and looking up with his mouth slightly open, drinking in every word—

And Crowley feels it, that tug, and knows the time has come to an end.

“I love you,” she says, voice thick. Aziraphale turns to her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for doing this to you, for forcing you into something you did not want—“

“Oh, but my dear,” Aziraphale says, and he sounds so, _so_ sad. “I wanted it, more than you can ever imagine.”

Their mouths meet for a last time, as she sobs into his lips, and then everything ceases to exist.

—

_“You will not remember,” Crowley hears Her say, gentle melancholia in Her voice. “It’s better for everyone, I think.”_

—

Nanny Ashtoreth wakes up, and Warlock is currently using his rubber snake to mimic a chokehold on the superhero toy.

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep,” she says, somewhat reproachful, to hide how pleasingly embarrassed she feels as she gives brother Francis his silly coat back.

“Nanny, you were asleep for— Five minutes, I think,” he laughs, something giddy in the back of his voice, like they shared some kind of secret. He puts the thing back, and they look silently at Warlock.

They did share a secret. Nanny wasn’t a nanny, and brother Francis wasn’t a gardener.

Crowley and Aziraphale sat side by side, not too close, crumbs of a toast with jam between them, and looked at the boy they were overseeing the upbringing of, hoping in the depths of their hearts the world would be saved, a life they lived briefly locked behind a wall in their memories, with a lock they won’t be able to open.

It was better for everyone, She thought.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/NohaVale)


End file.
